The Weight
by snoopctm
Summary: A short reflection story, imagining Sister Bernadette's thoughts during the opening sequence of Series 2, episode 6. Ever so slightly modified from the version I posted on my Tumblr.


The light that shone into the window of Sister Bernadette's cell at Nonnatus House wasn't greeted with warmth by the room's occupant. It had been yet another restless night for the sister, and the sunlight was just another reminder of the thoughts that had plagued her, disturbing her sleep. She lay in bed, as still as possible, but her mind was in constant motion, and this troubled her. She had always been able to think clearly before—focus on the task at hand, accomplish whatever duties were needed. Her religious offices, once such a joy, had been full of confusion and distance of late. Crushing distance. Where was God? As much as she sought Him, He felt so far away. She knew He was there, but her songs and prayers felt forced for the first time in her life. Always, there was that little nagging thought that there was something she was hiding—from God, and even from herself. She couldn't deny it in the depths of her own mind, although she tried to, desperately. Still here, alone in her cell, she couldn't avoid it. She sighed, shifting position to lie on her back, staring at the cold, blank ceiling, and wondering when answers would come. She wished she could stop thinking about _him._

This couldn't be what she feared it was. It couldn't. She had kept telling herself that during all the little moments—the glances, the occasions of brief conversation, the times he crept into her thoughts when she hadn't suspected. The brief, electric connections that couldn't help but make her think thoughts she'd never even considered before. And still worse than the thoughts were the feelings. That's what she never bargained for. How can being in one man's presence stir these emotions, this warmth? This utter, baffling confusion? She'd had crushes on boys as a child—innocent, unspoken, fleeting. Those were barely comparable to this. She'd spent so many years of devotion to God and her work, that serious thoughts of romance had long been discarded. Or so she thought. She had come to think of him as a dear friend, but after the other night—staying up all night on what was perhaps the most harrowing delivery of her career—she had to admit it was more than that. And then, when it was all over, there had been that moment—a tiny conversation. A shared cigarette. A moment of commiseration and respect. An affectionate interlude, albeit a brief one. That's when she knew it wasn't fleeting, even if it must remain ever unspoken. She just had to hide it, pray, and move on. She was sure he hadn't felt the same way, anyway. He couldn't. She was just another nun among several that he worked with, and he was probably still missing his wife. Still, he was always so kind, and his smile… They would be friends, she had decided, but for some reason she couldn't make her mind, or her heart, stay there. So she prayed, and she worked, and she hoped to forget.

Then, he had kissed her hand. She lifted it up now, tracing the increasingly fading scar on the palm, remembering not the pain of her fall but the warmth of his hands, and his lips. A brief glance, a fraction of a second. Her heart was racing as she snatched her hand back and turned away, trying to gather her breath and her racing thoughts. That had sealed it. Now, she couldn't even console herself with the thought that he didn't feel as she did. She was in trouble. She tried not to think of that day, but the memories, the sensations, kept coming back and she had found it hard to catch her breath. She sighed, lowered her hand, and sat up. It was useless to just lie there, and she had work to do. She would rise from her bed, force herself to dress, and go about her day, opening her Bible and attempting to read, only to stare hopelessly at the blank wall of her small cell. Still no answers, and still this weight. This enormous, suffocating weight. She prayed like breathing—labored, but deliberate. Hoping for relief but unsure when or if it would ever arrive. Glancing down at the Bible in her lap, she read the words of Psalm 121:

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.  
My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth."

These words that had comforted her time and again sat on the page. Silent.

"Oh dear Lord", she breathed. "Please help."


End file.
